


Based on a True Story

by Lungs



Category: Carmilla (Web Series), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, somewhat canon complaint AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-25 21:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6210595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lungs/pseuds/Lungs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Carmilla receives letter by owl, Laura discovers that Harry Potter is, indeed, a real person. Carmilla recounts how, mostly by chance, she came to consider Harry a friend over the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The parlor is plush. Oil paintings worth more than several year’s tuition litter the walls like trophies of war. The afternoon sun paints Laura’s world in blood orange pastel, casting the oxblood leather upholstery in baroque tones. She feels out of place in a room like this. Churchill might have drawn battle plans here, once upon a time.  
  
Curled up on an armchair three times her size is Carmilla. Carmilla belongs here. She’s classically beautiful like a warm Austrian night. Dark hair and dark eyes contrast against a shapely, pale face, clashing with her bright red lipstick. She wears a loose grey t-shirt cut just above her navel and a pair of form-fitting leather pants. A martini glass full of blood sits between her fingers and she sips at it delicately once in awhile.  
  
Carmilla smiles with a hint of teeth when she catches Laura staring at her and licks her lips. Laura blushes but forces herself not to turn away.  
  
“What even goes into a blood martini? Three parts gin and two parts screaming victim?” Laura gets a little aggressive when she’s embarrassed.  
  
Carmilla takes another sip, letting the blood stain her teeth a decadent red. “Shaken, not stirred,” she says in a lazy imitation of a British accent.  
  
“Much like the victim,” Laura shoots back, rolling her eyes. She gives herself a solid four out of ten for that one but she won’t ever let Carmilla have the last word.  
  
Carmilla laughs. It’s a small, tinkling sound, an understated thing that clashes with the opulence surrounding them. Laura thinks it’s perfect, so perfect that she begins to fix her hair out of some subconscious need to make herself more presentable. After several moments, it ends up looking more like a bird’s nest, so she sighs and combs it over with her fingers to straighten the strands.  
  
Time passes easily. Carmilla reads Hegel in her native German and Laura amuses herself with cute pictures of cats on the internet until the orange glow of the setting sun fades into an inky darkness and the light of the candles begin to cast flickering shadows.  
  
Before she’d survived a semester at Silas university, Laura would have said that the atmosphere was creepy. Definitely unnerving at least. Maybe even abnormal. Now? Laura knows better. The monster under the bed is lounging behind her sporting a blood mustache. Laura flips an M&M into the air like a coin and catches it with her tongue. It’s hard to be scared when she has M&Ms.  
  
The only thing she’s missing is a jukebox playing “Hotel California”.  
  
Laura jumps.  
  
She turns at a dizzy speed to face Carmilla. “Okay, what was that?” It’d sounded like someone had thrown a pocketful of change at a park bench.  
  
More tapping.  
  
“It’s just trying to get in,” Carmilla promises. Laura frowns at her, waiting for some kind of explanation as Carmilla stands and stretches, pulling herself to full height. Her spreading arms do wonderful things to her chest and Laura’s entranced for just a moment. Carmilla saunters over to the large French windows and throws them open with a flourish.  
  
Through the suddenly open windows careens a large owl, light brown and speckled like sandpaper.  
  
“Okay,” Laura squeaks. “What is a medium-sized bird of prey doing in our living room?” Her voice increases in volume until she ends in a panicked shout.  
  
Laura’s hands are running through her hair in distress, but she’s relieved it’s just an owl with a cream-colored envelope clutched in its talons.“And why does it have a letter?”  
  
Carmilla ignores her and leisurely walks over to an unfinished bowl of Count Chocula perched on the edge of the table next to where Laura’s leaning away from the owl.  
  
Carmilla holds out the bowl of blood-soaked cereal to the owl, which glides over to it. The owl stares at Carmilla with emergent disdain as it searches the bowl for cereal that doesn’t have entirely too much iron.  
  
As it pecks at the bowl, the owl sticks out its leg to let Carmilla take the letter before it gives up on trying to score some dry Count Chocula. The owl hoots its disapproval and takes off through the open window into the night.  
  
Carmilla drops the envelope onto the desk, reclaims the blood martini that Laura didn’t see her put down and slides back into her armchair as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.  
  
Her leather pants make a positively delightful swish on the upholstery.  
  
Laura gets up and slips into the armchair next to Carmilla, who moves slightly to make room. Laura interposes her face between Carmilla and Hegel. “What was that?” Laura demands.  
  
Their noses are close - perilously close, but Carmilla knows this game well. She raises her book over Laura’s head and continues to read through strands of honey brown hair, even if she can’t keep the ghost of a smile off of her face. “A letter.”  
  
“Who’s the letter from?” Laura asks. She’s curious and frustrated enough to put on a seductive pout.  
  
“Just a pen pal.” Carmilla sips her drink, ignoring the fact that Laura is all but straddling her.  
  
Laura’s face brightens with inspiration. Extricating herself, she dashes over to snatch the envelope off the table. Three letters are written on its face in a tidy, narrow script.  
  
CVK.  
  
Laura turns the letter over in her hands to open it, but Carmilla is suddenly behind her, one arm wrapped around Laura’s waist and the other finding a firm grip onto Laura’s wrist. Laura can feel Carmilla’s breath ghosting into her ear. “That’s not yours, cupcake.”  
  
Laura shivers from the sudden proximity and the dulcet, possessive tone.  
  
“Tell me who it’s from,” Laura whispers, holding back a whimper out of self-respect.  
  
“Someone important,” Carmilla says, with a shade of irritation. “And it’s not your business.” Her hands are warm. When Laura turns to look at her, the hooded eyes and the slightly parted lips almost convinces her to give up the letter.  
  
Laura tears herself free from Carmilla and glares at the letter, blood rushing in her ears. “Is it an old lover?” Laura trains the glare onto Carmilla, then her expression softens into worry. “Is someone blackmailing you? Carmilla von Karn-“  
  
Carmilla closes the distance faster than the eye can see and raises a finger to Laura’s lips, shushing her. She’s a little surlier now but there’s a glimmer of something in her eyes which makes Laura know she’s appreciated.  
  
“You wouldn’t know the first thing about him if I told you who it was,” Carmilla warns.  
  
Carmilla isn’t sure if she really means it or if she’s just trying to get a rise out of Laura, but, at any rate, her ploy is successful. She uses the momentary confusion to snatch the letter out of Laura’s fingers. A smirk blossoms on her face.  
  
“Carm,” Laura hisses, balling her hands into fists. “I swear-“  
  
Carmilla sighs, all suffering and superiority. “You’re going to make a big deal about this.”  
  
But she’s misjudged the situation a little. It’s already a big deal to Laura. The girl flounces over to the armchair and slams herself down onto it, actually angry. “I hate when you do this, Carm.”  
  
Her eyes are downcast and she’s tapping her feet.  
  
“Do what?” Carmilla dares, trying to catch sight of Laura’s pout. She inches towards the colonized armchair, tantalizingly slowly.  
  
“Lord you dark and mysterious past over me like it makes you better than me or something.”  
  
Carmilla sniggers. “I am better than you, sweetie.”  
  
Laura leans back hard and kicks her legs into the air and then lets her feet fall onto the floor with heavy thunks. “Just tell me who the-“  
  
“Harry Potter.”  
  
“Really?” Laura throws her hands up in consternation. “Really,” she repeats flatly. Her hands find their place at her hips. She leans forward, her eyes narrowed. “Who’s the letter from?” she demands.  
  
“I told you,” Carmilla drawls, as she slides into the armchair next to Laura. “It’s from Harry. The boy from your historical fiction.”  
  
Laura stares at her, searching Carmilla’s eyes. “Historical fiction?” She gapes at Carmilla’s audacity. “You’re trying to tell me that Harry Potter is historical fiction.”  
  
Carmilla doesn’t laugh. She just looks vaguely troubled.  
  
“You’re serious. You’re actually serious.” Laura stands up and fans herself like a distressed woman from the nineteenth century. She begins to pace.  
  
Carmilla nods up at her like she’s communicating with a slow child. “Yes, dear. Harry Potter is a real person.” She throws her arm over the side of the armchair invitingly.  
  
Laura sits back down and curls up against Carmilla for dear life. “I can’t handle this. This is too much. Way too much.” Her eyes widen like saucers and a dangerous, manic grin starts to show on her face. “This is the most awesome thing ever,” she proclaims.  
  
Then, she’s sad.  
  
“I guess I’m not a witch after all, then,” she mumbles, realizing that this is a world where she could have honestly gotten a Hogwarts letter at age eleven.  
  
Carmilla smiles at her enthusiasm and plants what would have seemed like a chaste kiss to onlookers on Laura’s forehead, but Laura can feel the well of affection and comfort through it.  
  
“Tell me about how you met Harry Potter,” Laura says, mumbling into Carmilla’s neck.  
  
“I don’t know,” Carmilla teases. “That might not be so good. What if you fall for your idealized image of the Chosen One and leave me?”  
  
Laura huffs and crosses her arms. “It’ll happen if you don’t tell me about him.”  
  
Carmilla pretends to consider this but she’s sure she’ll be telling this story already. Laura rarely gets so excited in a positive, happy way and she lives for it. “I suppose I don’t have a choice,” Carmilla admits with a faux grudgingness. “But don’t believe everything you’ve read about him.”  
  
Laura sighs. “This story better not make him out to be some sort of genocidal maniac. Or some magical dictator. Or-“  
  
Carmilla shakes her head. “No, not quite. But you might want to get some refreshments. It’s a long story.”  
  


August 1996

  
The day should have been perfect. Just that morning, Carmilla had been sitting at a little polished aluminum table at a Parisian cafe. There was a cute, besotted waitress who served her biscuits and held her gaze as long as she dared. Then, Mattie had found her.  
  
Carmilla hated the L word but if she did love anyone, it’d be her sister Mattie. And Mattie had been insistent. Carmilla was impressed that Mattie had even found her at all. It wasn’t like she told anyone where she’d go and the only time anyone could pin her down was when she returned to Silas University every two decades.  
  
Thoughts of the delightful ways the waitress could have squirmed under her were at the forefront of her mind as she sat in her mother’s parlor, listening to a phonograph play Chopin.  
  
Her mother, the Dean said little to her on the best of days, so her sudden desire to enforce some kind of behavioral standard on Carmilla invaded the lewd scenes easily, ruining them. Carmilla wished she didn’t have a policy of sobriety around her mother.  
  
“Do not embarrass me.” Her mother was unmoving that evening - insistent, sharp and angry. Carmilla thought that she might have even heard a note of trepidation in the words. Every few minutes, the Dean would say something about the prospective guests which made little to no sense. Carmilla didn’t ask questions but she paid attention, for once.  
  
At eight, precisely, there was a little pop that rang out through the parlor. It was a strange sound that didn’t echo - it sounded almost like a bad sound effect from a movie. Carmilla tried her best not to react to the pair of humans appearing several feet from where she was seated.  
  
They were a study in opposites. One tall, one short. One old, one young.  
  
The old man was dressed in long, deep purple robes with stars and crescent moons littering the fabric like running ink in water. He was unnaturally still and poised. His right hand was tucked away in some unknown pocket and the other grasped at the younger man’s shoulder. A pair of half-moon glasses sat upon a bearded face scored with age.  
  
He couldn’t have looked more like a wizard from high fantasy - stoic and unmoving and unapologetically wise.  
  
By contrast, the boy was no older than sixteen. He was dressed in a casual button-up shirt which was too large for him and jeans which had been clearly shrunk in the wash to fit him. He, too, wore glasses, wire-framed ones which were askew.  
  
The boy flailed like a drunken sailor.  
  
“Albus Dumbledore,” the Dean said.  
  
“At your service, madame.” Albus Dumbledore removed a pointed hat, hid it somewhere in his robes and kissed her mother’s hand.  
  
Carmilla had never seen her mother speak with a human before, much less respectfully.  
  
“Is this your apprentice?” the Dean asked, examining the boy, who straightened.  
  
Dumbledore nodded, smiling. His light blue eyes twinkled with a youthful mischief. “After a fashion.” He paused to bow. “It troubles me greatly to say this, but we are not on a visit to the hallowed halls of Silas for pleasure.”  
  
The Dean nodded. “Should we retire to my study?”  
  
“Lead the way, madame,” Dumbledore said, his smile widening. As the Dean turned, Carmilla thought she saw a hint of some displeasure on the old man’s face, but it was gone in an instant. They moved through a pair of double doors, which clicked shut behind them.  
  
The boy glanced around the room, his eyes lingering on the windows and doors, before finding Carmilla.  
  
“Hello.”  
  
Carmilla stopped herself from rolling her eyes, then plastered on an obviously patronizing smile. “Were you told to make small talk?”  
  
The boy nodded.  
  
“I was told not to meet your eyes,” Carmilla said, searching for signs of discomfort in his posture.  
  
The boy shrugged. “I can’t imagine why.”  
  
He stood there, unmoving, proving that he was more than his age would suggest.  
  
Carmilla fidgeted, unwilling to believe she’d been bested by a sixteen year old boy. She broke the silence, leaning back in her armchair. “You know, I don’t bite.”  
  
“Unless I asked nicely?” He had a British accent she couldn’t quite place. It was far more polite than he was. He turned his attention back to the designs on the carpet, lost in thought.  
  
“Why, you’re a broody one, aren’t you?” Carmilla smirked.  
  
“So I’ve been told.” He turned to look at her and Carmilla caught a flash of bottle-green eyes. “You’re-“  
  
He stopped, catching his words in his throat. He turned his attention back to the carpet.  
  
“Awfully forward for a vampire?”  
  
Somehow that got him to smile. “I was about to say that you’re a lot less scary than one of my professors made vampires out to be.” The smile brightened and somehow made him seem older than his years. “He used to wear garlic in his turban.”  
  
Carmilla let out a long, throaty laugh. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to lie to pretty girls.”  
  
The smile slipped away. “No, we’ve not spoken much.”  
  
There was an uncomfortable silence.  
  
“I’m Harry Potter,” he said, taking several steps towards her to extend a hand. Carmilla pushed herself up and shook it. Harry’s grip was firm. He didn’t kiss her hand, as she expected Dumbledore might have.  
  
“Charmed. I’m Carmilla von Karnstein,” she replied. “So what brings you to Silas University with Gandalf the White?”  
  
Harry let out a little chuckle, then took another look at his surroundings. “I wasn’t aware that I would be on a college visit today.”  
  
Carmilla’s face twisted sardonically. “I don’t think you’re the right fit.”  
  
“Depends,” Harry said. “How’s your Quidditch program?”  
  
Carmilla frowned. “Bless you?”  
  
His smile widened. “Definitely not the right fit then. Quidditch...” he trailed off. “It’s kind of like football to the muggles.”  
  
“Muggles?” His vocabulary was frankly bizarre.  
  
Harry waved his hands. “You know, the general populace.”  
  
“That sounds positively derogatory.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Harry said, impossibly British. “I meant ‘food’.” He held up his fingers in air quotes.  
  
Carmilla tilted her head at him, almost in disbelief. “You know what? I like you!” she decided, nodding along. “You’re like a portable peanut gallery.”  
  
Harry didn’t have anything to say to that, so they lapsed into another silence, but this one was less awkward.  
  
“Are you going to tell me why you’re really here?”  
  
His gaze became guarded and Carmilla could hear his pulse quicken almost defensively, but he maintained an easy stance.  
  
“I’m not sure,” he said, lying.  
  
Carmilla let a bit of frustration spike her next words. “Look, I was in a nice little cafe, reading Camus, when I was told that my mother requested my presence here. Pronto.”  
  
Harry let out a long breath and twiddled his thumbs. Carmilla could tell he was thinking carefully. He threw long glances at the door that Dumbledore and her mother had disappeared behind.  
  
“Professor Dumbledore came for a promise,” he began, weighing his words heavily. “Non-interference,” he said.  
  
Carmilla snorted. “Mother never leaves Silas,” she said, almost dismissively.  
  
There was a strange expression on Harry’s face between frustration and something a bit more sharp.  
  
“Sometimes, declaration exceeds the potential of example.”  
  
Carmilla rolled her eyes. “That’s awfully deep.”  
  
“Not my words,” Harry said.  
  
“I’ve never heard of a wizard admitting that he’s quoting someone else.”  
  
“You mustn’t know many wizards.” Harry was smiling again.  
  
Carmilla pointed to a seat across from her own and Harry walked over to it. Before sitting, however, he inspected the chair with a critical eye.  
  
“It’s not going to steal your soul, you know.”  
  
Harry turned to her and shrugged solemnly. “That’s what a diary tried to tell me once.” He sat anyway, apparently satisfied.  
  
His posture was somewhat stiff but Carmilla attributed that to the fear of the mystery chair.  
  
“Ever play twenty questions?” Carmilla finally asked.  
  
“I don’t recall that part of the script, Lestat.”  
  
Carmilla sneered. “The character in question would be Louis.”  
  
Harry held up his hands. “Oh forgive me for being behind on my readings. We don’t really have a literature class.” His eyes rolled slightly.  
  
“You called Saruman over there Professor,” Carmilla mused. “Is he a teacher at the school you go to?”  
  
Harry shook his head. “He’s the headmaster. I go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”  
  
“Hogwarts. School. of. Witchcraft. and. Wizardry.”  
  
Harry’s face flushed. “What’s so funny?”  
  
“Nothing.” Carmilla smirked.  
  
“Merlin went to Hogwarts,” Harry protested. “Or at least one of his descendants did.” His eyes narrowed. “Alright, maybe the name was chosen in a different era.”  
  
The smirk didn’t fade.  
  
“Alright, tell me what’s so great about Silas University.”  
  
Carmilla shrugged. “Nothing. This place sucks.”  
  
Harry stared. “So why do you spend your time here?”  
  
“I don’t. I told you. I’m only here because Mother says I have to be.”  
  
Harry nodded pensively. “I’m sure she means well,” he tried.  
  
Carmilla glared at him, waiting for him to retract the misplaced platitude, but it was clear that he’d meant it. “So, can you read my palm?” she mocked.  
  
“Uh, I guess.” Harry vacillated. “But, uh, I’m rubbish at Divination. I don’t know how I passed my OWL in that, I literally made up the answers on the spot. Professor Trelawney,” he said, with heady distaste, “says my inner eye is too clouded for the subtlest of arts.”  
  
Carmilla was somewhat taken by the serious response. She considered it. “You must be good at something for Obi-wizard Kenobi to drag you around, Luke.”  
  
Harry stared at her blankly.  
  
“You know, Star Wars?”  
  
He didn’t.  
  
“I’m alright at Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Harry said, choosing not to prod that particular hornet’s nest.  
  
“And what would that be?” Carmilla had discovered a bottle of wine and a glass somewhere. “I’d offer you some but I wouldn’t want to break any laws,” she said, gesturing.  
  
He inhaled strongly and his face twisted into something unpleasant before settling back into the quiet intensity she’d begun to associate with him. She was pleased to see that the comment about his age struck a bit of a nerve in the boy.  
  
“Oh, nothing important,” Harry said with a breezy _sotto_. “Just a class where we learn to kill monsters that threaten the human race.” He adjusted his glasses with a smile, but there was no coldness to it.  
  
She made a motion to pour him some wine but he shook his head.  
  
“Which was the best time to live in?” Harry asked suddenly.  
  
Carmilla took a sip. “What a creative way to ask a woman about her age,” she said, feigning insult.  
  
Harry smiled sheepishly.  
  
“Mortals. You’re all so concerned with how old we are.”  
  
Harry frowned, shaking his head. “Not particularly, no. I just wanted to know what it was like, once upon a time.” There was a charming sort of intellectual honesty in his words, as well as an alien despair which Carmilla disliked. “Infinite in distance and unbound in death.” There was a frantic mania which was carefully wound up in his voice she wouldn’t have noticed if his earlier words hadn’t captured her attention so wholeheartedly.  
  
“Who said that?”  
  
“Herpo,” Harry said, his eyes cast away from her.  
  
“The forties,” Carmilla said. “Men were brave and women were easily seduced. But I remember every encounter I’ve had with truly interesting people quite fondly.”  
  
Harry nodded solemnly. They didn’t speak again for a while.  
  
“What do you think they’re discussing in there?” Carmilla asked, nodding towards the study. She was a little less at ease without something to do than Harry Potter.  
  
“Nothing that the Professor would tell me about, I’m sure,” Harry said, with a bit of irritation. Carmilla threw a glance at him. It seemed like he was sorry he’d even opened his mouth.  
  
“You appear to have a rather strained relationship with your Headmaster.”  
  
“Professor Dumbledore is a great man,” Harry replied, suddenly tired.  
  
“So was Stalin.”  
  
Harry looked at her with some measure of disdain.  
  
“Alright then.” Carmilla downed the rest of her wine. “What makes him so great?”  
  
Harry frowned. “People like to make him out to be some big hero.” He leaned into the chair. “And I suppose he is. But you could probably rent a hero off the street for a couple of galleons.”  
  
Carmilla nodded, the sardonic grin returning. “Half my kingdoms or my ships to sail the seven seas.”  
  
Harry scowled. “Not that kind of galleon. It’s a currency denomination. Gold,” he clarified. He stopped, having lost his train of thought.  
  
Carmilla poured herself another glass.  
  
“But Dumbledore,” Harry trailed off. “Dumbledore is great because every waking moment, he makes the lives of other people better.”  
  
She laughed so hard she nearly spilled her wine. “Do you really believe that?”  
  
Harry gave her a wry grin. “No, but he’s our best hope.”  
  
“That’s dark. You make it sound like you’re at war.”  
  
This was met with a stony silence.  
  
Carmilla nodded in understanding. “Which is why you’re here, petitioning Mother to remain neutral.”  
  
Harry glared.  
  
“I’ve been alive for a very long time, Harry Potter. I’ve known many a great man and many a great woman. Few things hold true amongst them.”  
  
The glare became a frown as Harry studied Carmilla.  
  
“But almost without fail, they turn out to be very lonely people.”  
  
His eyes traced over her face, committing her features to memory.


	2. Chapter 2

Laura’s a little angry. “He’s not like that,” she protested.

Carmilla pulls her closer, close enough to whisper into her ears. “You’re surprised that someone isn’t like a hero from a storybook?”

Laura pouts. “He’s smart and friendly. He’s not supposed to quote Dumbledore or know who Herpo the Foul is, not yet at least.”

“Let me guess,” Carmilla drawls. “He gets to where he is at the end of the series because he makes a few moral choices that are superior to his archenemy. When he walks through the streets, parents hope their children will grow up to be him. He’s kind to the homeless and rescues kit-”

“Carmilla,” Laura whines. “You don’t understand.”

Carmilla kisses her softly behind her ear, waiting for her to continue.

Laura squirms. “Everyone knows Harry Potter. We’re Harry Potter’s generation. Everyone I knew from school wanted their letter when they were eleven. Everyone wanted to sort into Gryffindor and fight evil.”

“So you’re telling me Harry is responsible for your need to be a hero? I think I’m going to have to write a very angry letter.”

Laura frowns. “It’s more than that. He found true love when he rescued Ginny when he was just twelve. He steals an egg from a dragon by outflying it.”

“True love?”

Laura’s heart sinks in the face of Carmilla’s derision.

“Love is painful, love is unkind,” Carmilla begins. “It’s not about grand gestures, it’s about little sacrifices.”

Laura says nothing but the discomfort is visible on her face - then she brightens. “But we know from the epilogue that he manages to find love in the end.” Then, a jolt of realization hits her. “The epilogue,” she says shakily. “It’s not been nineteen years since the summer of ‘98.”

“A brilliant observation, Nellie Bly. You have any more shockers for me?”

Laura looks almost dejected. “The epilogue didn’t happen. It was supposed to be nineteen years after. Harry marries Ginny and Ron marries Hermione and they all have beautiful children and Harry has an eleven year old son named Albus Severus and-”

Carmilla stares at her like she’s crazy. “Harry gets married?” She chortles. “Children’s books are hilarious.”

“Yeah,” Laura says. “Works of literature without doom and gloom and implications on ethics and phenomenowhatsits and ontoliterature paradigms are worthless.”

Carmilla stares at her with half closed eyes. “Your ignorance about cornerstones of modern German philosophy is truly attractive,” she bites back, with a breathy voice.

“Why can’t we have nice things?” Laura asks. “He loved Ginny. It was super cute.”

“Harry became great, greater than his world.” Carmilla’s voice is nostalgic now, apologetic. “He gave up more than you can imagine to win his battles. I don’t think marriage, even with a wizard girl is on his mind.”

“A witch,” Laura corrects.

“Whatever.”

Laura nibbles on a cookie. “Did he always write to you?”

Carmilla nods carelessly. “Whenever I wrote back, the letter would come in the mail the next morning.”

Laura smiles at her conspiratorially. “That’s cute. He must have had a crush on you.”

Carmilla shakes her head. “Maybe. But it’s more likely that he learned, early on, that I take my time to reply to him. After a few years, he’s acquired my bad habits.”

“What’s so great about my Carmilla that Harry Potter would rush to write letters to her?” Laura gives her a mock glare.

“I’ve said it before. People of this generation don’t understand the pressure of responsibility. Maybe he wanted to talk to someone who did.” Carmilla traces Laura’s jaw with a finger. “Now that I come to think of it, he was very much like you. Single-mindedly determined. Vindictive.” A hint of humor rushes into her dark eyes. “With an equally keen fashion sense.”

“How could you know so much about him just from exchanging letters with him?” Laura protests.

Carmilla frowns and Laura admires the way her eyebrows come a little closer. “That wasn’t the last time I spoke to him. Once in awhile, our paths seem to cross in the strangest of places.”

December 1996

For the fifth time in seventy years, it was the end of the world - a fantastic excuse to dress up. The ballroom was slowly filling with the disgruntled and the obligated. Those who could move and shake the world were within the Sanctum with her sister Mattie, discussing and debating and dissecting arguments with one another about how the international community should proceed.

Here at the party were prized pupils, firstborn sons and daughters, dear advisers and trusted bodyguards. No one here was truly important, though the death of any of them would fetch a handsome price.

It smelled pleasant - of blood and books, of old rules and older laws, of sterling hospitality and cloaked daggers. Carmilla loved Rome.

It was still too early in the evening for anyone to dance. The light of the chandeliers couldn’t compare to the sun, still bright and yellow and high enough in the sky to illuminate the swirling motes of dust. Carmilla read Spinoza’s Ethics in a black dress just shy of scandalous at one of the many tables.

“Excuse me.” Carmilla looked up to see a woman with Fae ancestry in her slightly slitted pupils and a dress very similar to her own. Her hair was golden blonde and braided and she held a large notepad and pen between her fingers. “Are you with the Mugwump’s delegation? I’d like Dumbledore’s opinion on Decree Five-Eighty-Two-C, involving the test-ban on cold iron.”

The woman had taken a seat to her left and was already jotting on her notepad. “I’m sorry to say I’m not with the Mugwump,” Carmilla said, not sorry at all.

The woman arched an eyebrow. “Why are you sitting at his table, then?” She pointed a long finger at the placard which faced away from them.

Carmilla’s eyes widened before she found her best patronizing smile. “You must forgive me, miss. There was no assigned seating last time.”

The Faerie sighed and stuffed her writing utensils back into a purse which was much smaller than the notepad. “Dumbledore never brings anyone along. It’s like he doesn’t care about his international partners in the slightest.”

Her face took on a hint of suspicion. “Whose party are you with anyway?”

“I’m with Matska Belmonde,” Carmilla said, focusing on the Fae’s reaction.

She squinted at Carmilla, then nodded. “I see. What an interesting table you’ve found yourself at. One would expect your factions to be dear enemies.”

Carmilla smiled carefully, not giving away an inch about her lack of knowledge on the politicking her sister and mother did.

“Our oppression from wizardkind will soon be at an end,” the Fae whispered conspiratorially. “Everyone knows that Dumbledore hasn’t got much time left. The most brilliant wizard to walk the earth in four centuries, removed from the Confederation last year for health reasons.” She sneered.

“Or maybe internal turmoil,” Carmilla said, thinking of the letters that she’d been exchanging in the past months.

The Faerie ate up her words with relish. “It must have been a terrible succession struggle,” she decided. “He’s yet to find someone to carry his torch.” There was something more than just conniving to the fairy - it was predatory. The watery, violet eyes and the darting pupils made even Carmilla uncomfortable.

“Is that so?”

“I caught sight of our mighty and wise Supreme Mugwump. Something happened to his wand arm that left it dead and decayed, like he was the victim of a lost plague.” She smiled unpleasantly.

Carmilla remembered when Albus Dumbledore had visited Silas University. She’d thought it strange that he hid his hand from sight as he burst into existence in her mother’s parlor. “They say there’s trouble in Britain,” Carmilla said, trying to gauge the Fae’s reaction.

The delight was all too predictable. “The skeletons are all rising from their graves now,” came the dramatic whisper. “He’s lost the control of his people. Serves him right for instating that strange imitation of mundane democracies. Has history taught him nothing?”

“I think democracy is a beautiful experiment,” Carmilla said, in a neutral tone.

The Fae took it for a joke and giggled. Carmilla found it easy to laugh along with her. “Beautiful and funny,” the Fae said, then paused. “You must forgive me, how should I address you?”

“Countess,” Carmilla said. “Countess Styria, of Austria.” She glanced around the ballroom and spied a figure she recognized. “It appears that Dumbledore has, in fact, brought company this time around.”

Harry Potter found a seat across from her with some surprise. “I didn’t expect to see anyone here my age.” He gave her a wry grin. “It seems I was correct.”

He turned to the faerie. “Who’s this?” he asked Carmilla.

Carmilla didn’t have much experience with magic but she could smell the whiff of ozone in the air. Harry’s pupils dilated slightly.

“I’m a friend, child,” the Faerie said, her voice turning melodious and sensual, soft like a handful of doves, sexy like the dress she wore.

Carmilla nearly opened her mouth to say something to Harry, to interrupt this strangeness that had overtaken him, but in an instant there was the impossibly faraway sound of breaking glass. Harry’s eyes narrowed and his pupils contracted. “I represent Headmaster Dumbledore.”

The Faerie’s expression twisted, somehow blending contriteness into her smug smile. “You’re very talented for one so young.” She looked him up and down. “I see now. Dumbledore’s always been known for making interesting choices.”

“I take it you weren’t amongst the majority who voted for the Professor during his candidacy.” Harry’s grin turned a little nasty. “But considering you’re at the party with us, I don’t suppose you ever had a say to begin with.”

The Faerie’s glare turned hot and malevolent. Carmilla fought and failed to keep a smirk off her face. The Faerie sneered at her. “Well, I hope you have a better time entrancing the young man, whoever he is.”

“I’m Harry Potter, pleased to meet you.” Harry found a hostile gaze to turn onto the faerie. His glasses glinted in the light and the smell of ozone returned to the air. “Now you can leave.”

A brief glimpse of shock found its way to the Faerie’s face and a rough giddiness started to bloom upon her features. “By your words, Harry Potter.” She walked off to darken another table.

“You are a reckless, reckless child,” Carmilla realized, her smile settling into a fascinated rictus.

“Nice to see you too, Carmilla.”

“What in the seven hells would possess you to give one of the fair folk your name?” she wondered.

“Thanks, my day was fine. Other than a bit of schoolwork, December’s been treating me well. I’m glad you asked.”

“You’re an insufferable idiot,” Carmilla drawled, “and it’s so much fun to watch.”

“Pays to be young and invincible,” Harry said. There was a sort of gloominess to the joke that Carmilla only picked up on because of the way he averted his eyes to the table.

“We all believed we were invincible once,” Carmilla said, a touch morosely. Harry nodded in response, resigned. Carmilla took pity on the conversation and changed the subject. “How’s the book learning at the Houdini School of Stage Magic?”

Harry leaned forward. “I couldn’t tell you much in the letters, but Dumbledore’s been telling me things. Giving me books I ask for. Letting me leave the school when I want to.”

“Well aren’t you a big boy now. You can cross the street without anyone holding your hand and sometimes you can read books without help.” Carmilla smiled to show Harry that she didn’t really mean it but he wasn’t looking at her.

Harry let out a frustrated sigh as he considered a menu sitting on the table. “Talking to you is like talking to a brick wall. Sometimes you look like an idiot. Sometimes a brick comes loose and brains you.”

“You sound like you have a lot of experience talking to walls.”

Harry stared at her flatly for a few seconds, then found the absurdity of the situation and let himself laugh. It sounded equally forced and genuine - awkward and worldly.

“A martini, shaken, not stirred,” he enunciated at the tablecloth. Like clockwork, the drink appeared in front of him. He looked up at Carmilla triumphantly, raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. He immediately gagged.

“Not a word,” he said. He stared pointedly at the drink, refusing to meet her eyes.

“I wouldn’t finish that if I were you. You might get drunk and a Faerie might take adv-”

“Not. A. Word.”

Carmilla took pleasure in watching him gulp at the concoction gingerly until it was gone and she couldn’t tell if the layer of vapor on the glass was from the chill of the drink or the warmth of his hands. A light flush crept up to his cheeks almost immediately. He ate the olive.

“Dumbledore says that they might be ‘ensconced’ for four or five days without pause. I’ve always wondered how long a vampire could go without sleep.”

Carmilla shrugged. “I don’t know how long my sister can stay up. I generally need about as much sleep as you do.” She narrowed her eyes. “How does someone older than a hundred stay awake for a couple of days?”

Harry brought a hand to his chin, lost in thought. “Invigoration Draught, I’d suppose?”

Carmilla raised her eyebrows. “That sounds like it’s illegal in several countries.”

Harry shook his head. “It’s not like...” he trailed off. “Actually, I’m not sure how bad it is to have a bunch of it instead of sleeping. I know that if you have more than you should, it’ll cook the raw food in your stomach.”

“You wizards are quite peculiar, with your drugs and robes.”

Harry looked around and realized he wasn’t just the only boy his age but also the only one not wearing a suit. “I’m old-fashioned,” he muttered.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Carmilla said cheerfully, making it clear that Harry’s choice in fashion was most egregious. “Chin up or whatever you Brits say.”

Harry glared.

Harry amused himself with more alcohol as the afternoon turned to night and the ballroom began to crowd. Carmilla read passages of Spinoza to him, which he received with deep thought but without much comment.

The adventurous ones had made their way onto the floor of the ballroom. Carmilla spied a couple waltzing. “Would you like to dance, Harry?”

“Me?” Harry asked, pointing at himself. “Dance?” He broke out into peals of laughter, aided by liquid courage. “Surely not with me,” he said, dragging out the syllables.

“Don’t they teach you anything at that school of yours?” Carmilla asked, a touch aggressively with the beginnings of a pout.

Harry shook his head. “Now that I think of it, Dumbledore did say that I should take my time to learn how to blend in with high society this year.” He looked embarrassed. “I thought he just wanted me to listen to chamber music like his does.”

“Chamber music is great,” Carmilla said, feeling the need to defend European culture.

“I know,” Harry said, a touch sarcastically. “Dumbledore told me, when I was a wee lad of eleven, that music was a magic beyond anything taught at Hogwarts.”

Carmilla shook her head, chuckling lightly. “So, for future reference, would you like me to show you how to have a good time?”

Harry stared at her suspiciously, then nodded.

Carmilla acquired a devious smile. “First, you need to look around until you find a pretty girl.” She closed her book and searched from table to table.

The supernatural were beautiful, there was no doubt about it. There was something about living for a long time in bodies that didn’t age which lent itself to a certain vanity, like a flower forever held in bloom - a mockery of the natural order.

For wizards, who were closer to mundane than most, this world was a fairy tale. Carmilla figured that for Harry, who had grown up without knowledge of his magic, this ballroom could have been a different universe. He looked more unsure sitting at his table than he had looked amongst the finery of Silas. This was Carmilla’s world.

“Next, you catch the eye of the most beautiful girl in the room.” Carmilla nodded towards a blonde girl wearing a white cocktail dress who seemed to draw the attention of everyone around her.

“Oh, this is not happening,” Harry moaned.

Carmilla gave him another smile and then stood and ghosted over to her mark’s table. She bowed and took the girl’s hand, kissing it, with a smile she’d learned from centuries of experience - the sort of smile that made someone feel like they were the only person in the world.

Back at Dumbledore’s table, Harry’s head was in his hands and he was on his fifth drink, a finger of rye.

Harry watched with growing discomfort as Carmilla danced with the blonde angel. One waltz stretched into the next as Harry lost track of his drinking.

Before long, Carmilla led the giggling girl back to Harry’s table. When she caught sight of the boy, her smile faded.

“It’s been a while, Fleur,” Harry said, letting go of his glass onto the table. A sharp thunk.

“Harry Potter.”

“What I want to know, Carmilla,” Harry said, with the hint of a slur, “is how many coincidences there can be until it’s a setup.”

“Do you two know each other?” Carmilla asked with a cheerful bravado, as though she hadn’t chosen this particular girl because Harry refused to look in her direction.

“You could say that,” Harry muttered.

“But we don’t have to talk about it,” Fleur finished, in French. She flashed a smile at Carmilla, showing a row of perfect, pearly white teeth. “Is there somewhere more private we can go?”

Carmilla shook her head. “I’m afraid that this is where I’ve chosen to draw the battle lines.”

“You support the Mugwump?” Fleur asked Carmilla with some delight, in French.

Carmilla shook her head. “I’m with a neutral party but I’m a friend of Harry’s.”

“So this is why Dumbledore took his time to learn over a hundred languages,” Harry complained looking between them. Something ugly crept into his eyes. “Maybe I should get started on Mermish.”

Fleur’s cheeks tinged pink in anger and there was an almost avian cast to her face. “If I had a drink you would be wearing it,” she said, in noticeably accented English. She turned to give Carmilla another smile. “If you are in need of better company, my grandmother’s table always has room for another beautiful woman.” She walked off.

Carmilla took her seat as the corners of her lips slowly rose. “You’ve been holding out me, Harry.”

Harry said nothing. He reached into his robes and found a lemon drop with a bit of lint on it, which he picked off. He popped the candy into his mouth, chewed on it, gagged, then looked noticeably less drunk.

Carmilla went back to reading but even as her eyes passed the words, her mind wasn’t on Spinoza. Harry stewed thoughtfully.

“Thanks,” he finally said.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Mostly everyone I know would have questioned me endlessly. ‘Oh Harry, it’s not good to keep all these feelings inside, you should talk about it with all of us.’” His wry grin was back but there was something brittle to it.

Carmilla tilted her head from side to side and nodded graciously.

Harry ordered another drink. “I’m not feeling so invincible right now.”

Carmilla looked up and did her best to keep the pity off of her face. “Love comes and goes,” she said, feeling supremely unhelpful.

“Why’s it always about love?” Harry mutters. “Me and Fleur...” he trailed off. “I think we both knew that there wasn’t really anything special there. Just physical attraction and my perceived heroics.”

“Isn’t it telling that heroes are always the least interesting characters in their stories?”

“I was fourteen when I met her.” He sounded bitter. “She expected so much from me.”

“You’re sixteen now,” Carmilla said, knowing for sure that she was supremely unhelpful.

Harry chuckled. “I guess. I don’t feel sixteen though.”

“No.” Carmilla agreed.

“Fourteen was when people started dying around me. Sometimes it wasn’t for anything they did. Wrong place, wrong time. Sometimes it was because of me.” He finished his drink in a long swallow. He took a look at Carmilla. “Do you pity the people who die around you? Who you’ve killed?”

Carmilla didn’t want to answer.

“Professor Dumbledore told me a story a few weeks ago. The last battle that truly tested him was at the gates of Nurmengard, when he duelled Gellert Grindelwald.”

“The Grand Sorcerer?” Carmilla frowned.

“Is that what the Germans call him?” Harry smiled. “It was fitting, that all the war and bloodshed came to an end under a gate carved liked a Roman triumph. ‘For the Greater Good.’”

Under the incandescence of the chandeliers and the pallid glow of the moon, there was a hint of longing on Harry’s face that made Carmilla’s blood run cold.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm unapologetic hollstein trash.
> 
> I'm still learning the ins and outs of present tense, so please be as harsh as possible if you comment!


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